by R. G. Oram
‘Yes I am. May I enquire as to who’s asking?’
‘George Taylor, freelance writer,’ a nasal and courteous voice produced these words, his empty hand shot out. Lewelyn’s didn’t respond to the occasion, letting Taylor’s hand shake the free air.
‘What do you want?’ Lewelyn asked.
‘I was wondering if I could have a few minutes of your time.’
‘Thanks for the offer but no thanks,’ Lewelyn sidestepped to move past Taylor. In sequence Taylor did the same.
‘Look, I just want a minute or so. I hear you’re, or more correctly were, the employer of Hannah Miller. And you’re now working with the police to help catch the person who did it. Very admirable what you’re doing. Very noble.’
‘Good to know,’ Lewelyn said.
Taylor kept the stretched eccentricity in his hung-drawn-and quartered smile, ‘I’m not sure if you read my blog yesterday about all that’s going on in the investigation. What me and all my readers online are wondering is, what’s your take on it all? Is the investigation being properly managed? What is it like working for the LAPD? We’d all appreciate a short statement from you, get to know you better, see your side of things.’
‘Not interested.’
‘Everybody wants to be heard. Why don’t we just talk for a minute? You don’t know me and I don’t know you. When we sit down and get to know each other a little better we won’t be uncomfortable strangers. You’ll feel a lot easier talking to me.’
‘No.’
‘Why are you being so evasive? I just want to talk,’ one side of the blogger’s upper lip arched up slowly.
‘Please get out of my way,’ Lewelyn could feel the blood in his body flowing hotter – the pressure rising.
‘Come on. I just want to print the truth.’
‘You’ll just have to wait,’ Lewelyn said, side skidding again and adding a little more speed to his evasion. Taylor extended his leg too late and Lewelyn slipped inside.
‘What happened to good manners?’ Taylor shouted to Lewelyn’s back.
Wanting to reciprocate, come up with a great one liner, but that was a trap. It’s better to just walk away, otherwise you’ll be giving them what they want and be with them for hours. He chose the ignore option for the conversation closure.
Making his way to his temporary designated desk, Lewelyn saw Forsythe leave the workspace, carrying a small plastic container, the size of a brick, towards the division’s kitchen. He returned without it.
‘What was in the box?’ Lewelyn asked.
‘Sirloin Steak. Leftover from last night’s dinner. My wife made it.’
‘That’s a good cut of steak and there’s an interesting story behind it.’
‘Do tell,’ Forsythe swivelled in the chair to align with Lewelyn.
‘There’s a legend that it’s a knighted steak, hence the name, Sir – Loin. Apparently it was knighted by one of the British monarchs, not sure who though.’
‘I did not know that. It’s funny really. The clue’s in the name but you just wouldn’t think it,’ the detective chuckled.
‘So it seems,’ Lewelyn replied.
Forsythe got up from the chair and pulled his hanging jacket off its back. Then he patted his pockets to what it seemed to Lewelyn, to be checking their contents.
‘Up for another ride?’
‘Where this time?’ Lewelyn wondered.
‘Santa Rosalia,’ Forsythe stating the location of the crime scene and Lewelyn’s whereabouts last night.
They got onto the I-10 by San Pedro. The Interstate had little to offer in restriction of speed, as no lines of cars formed, there were only buses and smaller vehicles to move against. Getting off on Crenshaw Boulevard they were greeted by the local tag artists who let you know the walls had eyes.
When they got onto Santa Rosalia Drive, sandy creamed apartment buildings and flat greened lawns laid out their untainted world to them. A mass population of palm trees seemed to be maturing. The apartments appeared in the corner of the windscreen. Strange to see it in natural light, for every time Lewelyn had been there the grass looked darker when artificial street lighting substituted for the drowsy sun.
Forsythe parked in an empty space, it said reserved but its owner most likely would not be back until late afternoon. Next to their space was another with ‘Manager’ signposted in front of a dexterously waxed saloon. Its tinted windows shielded the interior to unauthorised scrutiny. Lewelyn, told to wait in the car, watched the detective leave the complex and step onto the outer paved path. There was a towering encased light that seemed to draw Forsythe’s attention. Lewelyn saw the man move repeatedly backwards and towards it with nearly closed, but vision enhancing eyes. Then he switched to shifting left and right while continuously focusing his eyes on it.
Lewelyn was about to allow his curiosity to submit to impatience when Forsythe turned abruptly and re-entered the apartment grounds.
David Lewelyn abruptly exited the car and caught up with Forsythe just inside the building forecourt. He asked him if they could go upstairs; Lewelyn was anxious to see the inside of Hannah’s apartment.
‘No. Me and Baker were here Sunday and spent the day canvassing the place. The body’s gone and everybody was questioned. I want to talk to the owner about something.’
Forsythe walked to the nearest apartment on the ground floor. His knocks on the door were long and hard. They were answered by a small man wearing a checked shirt and displaying a thin receding hairline.
‘Yeah?’ the man in check asked.
‘You remember me, Mr Davenport?’
The man did not verbalise his recognition, he scoffed instead.
‘What do you want now? Didn’t I answer all your questions before?’
‘Unfortunately, Mr Davenport, when, like me, you get past fifty, you can’t remember most of the time what you had for breakfast,’ Forsythe went closer to the door. ‘It’ll only take a few minutes.’
Forsythe’s hand was pushed firmly on the door transmitting increasing pressure on it, forcing Tom Davenport to take a few steps back.
‘Five minutes. I hope you remember how to read the time.’
Lewelyn watched the back of Forsythe’s neck as they went in – it hadn’t tightened in response to what the apartment manager said.
All three of them sat down, Lewelyn saw framed posters of old western movies on the wall. Fingertips on the trigger and a desert landscape in the background, he then noticed Davenport’s leather camel boots coming out of the lower end of his drainpipe jeans. His hands were in his pockets with the thumbs out, Lewelyn could see the man wanted to put the thumb and index finger onto the belt buckle – like a real cowboy.
No drinks were offered and Forsythe got to the point.
‘Look, Mr Davenport, we came here today because we want to make sure that nothing was missed. I remember you saying when my partner and I came to interview you that day you had not seen anything that night. But in my experience as a law enforcement officer, witnesses memories can sometimes become clearer as time passes. I wanted to see if you have anything new that could help the investigation.’
No time wasted, ‘No I do not. My memory of the day is the same as it was when I last spoke to you.’
‘Okay that’s fine. Tell me do you have any security footage of the area?’
The eye balls of Davenport almost rolled up to the eyebrows.
‘I can see what you mean how age affects memory,’ he inwardly breathed, showing his nostrils to them. ‘When you and your other partner talked to me last time you had already asked me that question and I told you that I do not have any cameras here.’
Forsythe read through his notepad.
‘Yes you’re right. You did say that you had no surveillance footage here. I apologise. By the way – why don’t you have any security footage here?’
The thumbs of the owner at last went into the pockets, ‘Didn’t see much point in it. And it costs too much.’
Forsythe did not look at Davenport when the man was speaking. He had his eyes fixed on the notepad.
‘Did you see the wheels out there? The one in the manager’s spot? She’s a beauty.’
The building manager caught Forsythe’s facetiousness, but maintained his composure. He glanced at one of the gunslingers on the wall.
‘Does that light out there work? The one that rises over the fence?’ Forsythe looked at Davenport that time.
‘No it’s broken. Been meaning to take it down and throw it away.’
‘How long has it been like that?’
‘A few months, haven’t had time to fix it. This place keeps me busy.’
Forsythe’s gaze started to extend out ahead, ‘Looks pretty well maintained. The glass is spotless.’
Davenport sat down abruptly in an overstuffed armchair. His head absorbed the chair’s head rest. Forsythe sat on a tall stool next to him and continued to speak.
‘When I looked at it earlier I thought I saw something inside.’
The fingernails pushed through Davenport’s pockets and penetrated the sofa’s arm rests.
‘What is it?’ Forsythe asked.
‘A broken light bulb.’
‘Tell me,’ not interested in mannered decorum, Tom Forsythe’s face silently growled distrust in his countenance. ‘Now.’
‘It’s a camera,’ he said, rubbing his bristled head.
‘What’s it doing there?’
Davenport looked away when he spoke, ‘There’s an old guy. He walks his damn dog around here and he lets it shit wherever it wants and it’s always on my property. I caught him once but he wouldn’t listen to me when I told him he couldn’t do that. Said to me he doesn’t deserve to be bothered like that on account of his age. Arrogant prick thinks he should get special treatment because he’s old. I didn’t want any more dog shit on my property so I installed that camera to prove he did it. So I can sue his old ass in court.’
‘How long’s it been there?’ Forsythe queried.
‘Just over four months,’ Davenport said, looking, but not for long at the two men.
‘Where’s the footage?’
‘On my phone. It’s an app that connects my phone to the camera.’
‘Hand it over,’ the detective demanded, throwing away courtesy.
‘No. It’s my phone, I need it.’
Forsythe slipped languidly off the stool, the shadow projected by his stature darkened Davenport and his chair.
‘Do you want to be arrested for obstruction of justice?’
One of Davenport’s hands pulled out a phone from a deep pocket and threw it onto the floor beside Forsythe’s shoes. Kneeling down to retrieve it, Lewelyn waited to see if a wooden heel would kick at Forsythe – both Davenport’s feet stayed grounded.
Chapter 21
When it came to watching security footage Forsythe warned Lewelyn they could be days, weeks or months watching four months’ worth of recordings. He asked Lewelyn if he had brought any lunch today. Lewelyn replied he had not, so they stopped the car at a diner in Santa Rosalia, as Forsythe recommended it would be best if he got something to eat before settling down to watch a video footage marathon. Appreciative of the advice, Lewelyn entered a diner and asked for a tuna salad sandwich.
Back at First Street, Lewelyn placed his lunch on his desk – he’d eat it later when hunger called. Now came the crucial action. After connecting Davenport’s phone to the computer, Forsythe pressed a few buttons on his keyboard.
‘Look at this,’ he said and Lewelyn rose inquisitively from his chair, to view what Forsythe needed him to see. The computer screen brightened up and played what Lewelyn perceived to be a digital recording of a street, the one they had just visited.
‘Problem with this footage is it only gives us a view of the street outside and a partial of the entrance. Hopefully we’ll see something but don’t be disappointed if we don’t.’
To make it easier to watch Lewelyn swung his chair around to Forsythe’s desk. Both men peered intensely at last week’s activities. Forsythe fast forwarded the footage to the Friday morning. He explained to Lewelyn that the killer had murdered her at around late Friday night/early Saturday morning. The murderer chose this time because it was quiet and most of the apartment owners would have been asleep by then. He played it from 7am; starting from there because Hannah would soon be going to work, leaving her apartment unoccupied until 6pm when she gets home. They didn’t know what time the killer got into her apartment, only it couldn’t have been earlier in the morning or the day before, as she was still in the apartment and it would have been ridiculous and risky to wait there a full twenty-four-plus hours for the kill. Lewelyn agreed with the logic and stared hopefully at the moving pictures.
The street outside the apartment block had a clean character. No garbage bags or litter left on the sidewalk, barely any fallen leaves lazily bathing in the declining sunlight and from time to time cars drove through the apartment complex gates. Some people walked in and out. There was the occasional passerby who went down the street until no longer caught within the range of the camera’s lens.
It amazed him how many cars there were. Funny really, how accepting we all were of them, that the number of times you were passed by one you wouldn’t bother to make a mental note of it.
Sometime after 2pm, a dog with its owner had stopped by the gates. Davenport’s nemesis had returned. Lewelyn and Forsythe watched the golden Labrador sniff for unclaimed territory. Its elderly human companion mutely spoke to it (there was no sound on the footage). From the vigorous shaking of the dog’s lead and collar it was evident that the old man wanted to know if it had decided where it wanted to conduct its business. The four legs stopped in a set position.
Lewelyn studied the mannerisms of the dog’s owner. Looking calm, not furtively turning his shoulders to keep a lookout for Davenport, just letting his dog smear the sidewalk.
Knows exactly what he’s doing, Lewelyn thought; characterising the senior citizen as a serial sidewalk defiler.
He knew staring unblinking and dry eyed at a bright screen was not good for his sight but Lewelyn chose not to blink, lessening the risk of him missing a second of the footage.
Each hour passing on the screen brought more dehydration. Getting closer now to the time. Fifty nine turned to double zero: a new minute, a new hour. As it became darker, cars entered and few left, fewer passers-by too. A few late dog walkers and joggers went by. They mainly watched a sidewalk and thick bushes.
Instantly with a click on the mouse the screen froze.
‘Look there,’ Forsythe said. He pointed at what Lewelyn thought was a dark shadow until he saw white flesh under the hood, ‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know. Play it,’ Lewelyn said. Forsythe clicked the mouse once more.
The hooded figure, not a passer-by. Stopped at the apartment block entrance, lingering sideways to the camera, then ventured in. The detective and body language expert looked at the video time: 00:24.
‘You think it’s him?’
‘Not sure. I’ll rewind it,’ Forsythe said. He rewound back to the point where they first saw the hooded figure. Looked male, the colour hood he wore mixed well with the returning shadows. Fast walking, like there’s somewhere he needed to be or was excited about something.
Again back at the entrance, a moment’s standing.
‘Can you zoom in on that?’ Lewelyn requested.
The image moved further inwards to the hooded man. The screen now singularly focused on the hood. Standing sideways to the camera, little else could be seen on the screen. Lewelyn drove his attention to the face. You could see the profile of the face and parts of the other side. The rugged paled features suggested male.
/> David Lewelyn looked at the potential predator’s lips, the corners were raised to their fullest and a mouth of even, bright white teeth revealed themselves to the camera.
‘He’s smiling,’ Forsythe announced.
Chapter 22
They had a face, now they need a name.
Detective Forsythe intended to put a name to the hooded figure and, fortunately for him the security footage captured most of the face. Now he was going to insert the image of their person of interest into the national database. The image is uploaded to the system, then it differentiates the subject from the offenders already stored. It analyses documented human faces for the purpose of comparing and contrasting records of known offenders, hopefully leading to a facial identification.
The facial recognition software the detective was about to use reminded Lewelyn of something he had said before; the world being a hamlet.
‘Let’s give him a name,’ Forsythe proudly said, coming to the conclusion that the person was male gender.
‘How long does it take?’ Lewelyn asked.
‘Don’t know. Sometimes it can take a couple of seconds, other times over an hour. It’s scanning all records in the system. Every person who’s been booked and processed.’
Forsythe got up.
‘Where are you going?’ the sitting Lewelyn asked.
‘To get my lunch, now turned dinner.’
Lewelyn acknowledged the fair point with a grin. He looked down at the trash can under his desk where the remains of his lunch were. He didn’t need to look at his watch to know it was past five. The phones rarely sounded and most detectives had headed home. He himself was starting the hunger process. His stomach grilled its empty spaces. There was a restaurant in the building but he chose the vending machine outside, he’d see what it had to offer – not wanting to leave his chair for too long.
‘You okay for me to eat?’ Forsythe asked Lewelyn after retrieving his ‘lunch.’
The face was still nameless, he could see the computer workings to its maximum capacity, seeing the search message’s hourglass doing frequent 360’s.